The Most Essential Part
by HopelessRomancer
Summary: Germany receives a prophecy in the early 19th century about what a man named Hitler will do to his country. He sets out to kill the man before he can do any harm but, as always, the situation is a little more complicated than it seemed.


The breeze swirled in from the west on that particular Austrian summer night. Now, outside of a pale yellow nineteenth century house, Ludwig stood, gazing seemingly up at the stars. But instead of watching the heavens, bright blue irises scoured the building's façade until they rested upon their target: an open window. Those eyes narrowed ever so slightly, determinedly.

The young nation had come this far, and he would not be turning back. If what he'd been told was at all accurate, then what happened tonight would ensure the safety of his future –of his people's future. _If_ he succeeded. No. He _would_ complete this task. Germany had grown into a powerful nation and it hadn't been by simply twiddling his thumbs. He'd killed before. This time would be no different.

Ludwig's hand drifted to his hip where he ran his fingers along the handles of his handgun and pocketknife for reassurance. Taking in a final gulp of fresh air, the nation slipped a long rope from his coat pocket and tied a hook to the end. In a single swift motion, he swung the rope skyward for the window. Giving his rope a quick tug, the hook caught on the windowsill. Germany reached as far up on the rope as he could, then he hoisted the rest of his body along and wrapped his legs around it. Thankful for his upper-body strength and praying that the rope would hold his weight, the young man began to climb. _Don't break, rope. Don't let them hear me, mein gott don't let them hear me. Don't look down, whatever you do, just don't look down._

Painfully slowly, the windowsill grew closer and closer until Germany's own fingers wrapped around it. Making as little noise as humanly possible, he pulled the rest of his body through the open window. The second his boots touched the wooden floor Germany had his knife at the ready, poised to strike at anything that moved. When nothing disturbed the delicate peace, the nation let his tired body relax a little.

Germany scanned his surroundings, taking in every detail. He decided at last that he must be in the wrong room. It was not unlikely since he had entered through the only open window he could find. There was no evidence of a future tyrant waiting in this room, no bed with a sleeping criminal inside. No racist, sadistic pamphlets or letters lying around as he'd been expecting. In fact, the only thing of interest was a tiny cradle, the corner of a faded baby blue blanket draped over the side.

Germany made for the door. With every footstep, the floor welcomed him with an unearthly groan, a monster awakened from its slumber. Ludwig would freeze, sure that this time, the floor-always on guard-would give him away. Each time, however, as the nation stopped to listen for rapid approaching footsteps, his fears were only met by silence. Eventually, Germany reached the door and wrapped his fingers tenderly around the handle, as if dealing with a bomb. Hesitantly, he pushed the door open. He was ready to pull it shut behind him when the name plate plastered to the outer side of the door caught his eye. _Adolf Hitler._ _What!_ He'd been in the right room all along? _But..._Germany's felt his mind scramble to comprehend the new knowledge. The young nation turned his eyes to the cradle resting harmlessly in the middle of the room he'd just been about to leave. Slowly, he backed into the bedroom again, closing the door quietly and creeping over to the crib. Sure enough, the name "Adolf Hitler" was engraved into the side of the wooden cradle. _This "monster" was only a baby? He was supposed to kill a baby!_

Ludwig wasn't sure exactly what he was doing as he watched his own hand reach into the mass of blankets and slide them down slightly, revealing the baby's face. Innocence. It was the only thing the young nation could see in the child's sleeping features, unaware that a man who was much more than human stood above him with the purpose of ending his new life. Germany felt his heart pounding against the cage that was his ribs. He only wanted to turn and go back. Back to the comfort of his home and back to where his brother awaited him. He was almost ready to do so when the thought of his people flitted through his mind, a taunting reminder. Germany forced his other arm, the one branding his knife, to lift. It seemed to be the hardest task he'd ever tried to complete. He took in a long, deep breath and brought the knife up, suspended in the air above the sleeping boy.

He would later convince himself that he would have brought it down too, had the child's eyes not shot wide open. The sky met the sea as Germany found himself staring back at his reflection in a pair of wide blue eyes whose depth reminded him of the ocean. The young nation only dropped his gaze as he felt tiny fingers wrap themselves around his thumb.

The summer air was suddenly asphyxiating and smothering, and the cool draft from the open window sent burning chills down his spine. His limbs appeared to have lost all feeling. Then there was a low clattering thunder that split the silence open like lightning in thick, humid air. Germany realized the knife was no longer in his fingers but had fallen to the floor. Now he could hear the sound of someone, awakened from their sleep, shifting in the next room.  
_Pick up the knife, Germany. This is your last chance!_ Ludwig looked at the glinting metal that lay at his feet, and then back to the child in the crib whose tiny hand had worked its way into the Germany's. All of a sudden he felt sick and he knew, even before he'd decided, that he could not do it. Germany would, but Ludwig could not. Tearing his hand from the baby's grasp, the young man grabbed his knife and fled for the open window. The footsteps were growing nearer now he was glad for the excuse to leave.

He threw himself out into the night and, ignoring the horrible burning in his palms, slid down the rope to the waiting ground below. Germany tugged the hook loose and dove into the bushes, out of view of the window as he watched a light flicker on in the room. The cooing of a mother and high-pitched whimpers of the boy soon followed. Ludwig felt his pulse slowly quiet down in his ears. He felt no relief, however, only a strange, horrible new fear. Germany was surprised to realize his cheeks were damp with the trails of his tears. He had never felt so disgusted with himself. Not only had he completely failed to protect his people but he'd actually been about to murder a child. He'd been left with no way out.  
Ludwig had no idea how long he sat there in that bush. He knew he could not go home and face his brother looking like this. He let the tears fall and did his best to muffle his sobs. Finally, he gained composure enough to stumble to his feet. The sudden urgency to find his way home, to do anything to take his mind off the situation, dimly fluttered in the back of his mind. Slim strips of sunlight had already begun to appear on the underside of clouds and Prussia would be worried if he wasn't back soon. The thought of the comfort of his own house and his waiting brother were enough to send Germany sprinting away from that faded yellow house and towards the rising sun in the east.

***

It was 1933 when Germany met that child again. By then, it just so happens that the boy, now fully grown, had decided to style his hair off to the left side of his face and cut his mustache in the shape of a square. As for Ludwig, he was sick, dying, and thirsty for the glory of which he'd been robbed. When the man stood before him, sea-blue eyes as piercing as ever and a hand extended to the fallen nation, what else could Germany do but place his own fingers into the waiting palm?


End file.
